


of what danger

by obscurities



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M, Mystery, so please continue with caution, there is sure to be fucked up themes to follow knowing me, write and never look back
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-15 23:25:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14151651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obscurities/pseuds/obscurities
Summary: It begins in the study. Wouldn't it make sense for it to end there as well?





	1. [sehun] chapter i.

**Author's Note:**

> I have been driving myself somewhat crazy with the sheer amount of wips I have and felt rather discouraged by the works I have still yet to finish that are 2+ years old. I hardly ever post anything on this account or otherwise from shyness (and maybe just a little downright fear) and overwhelming perfectionism. 
> 
> So, in the spirit of spring and new beginnings, I said with utter joy "fuck it" and began writing something entirely new with no breaks in between to cast harsh judgement on myself and halt all progress. What I wrote, just in the past hour with some fiddling around on AFF to post this word vomit as well, is the first (and short) chapter of this work here. I have no idea where it's going and no intention of mulling over it either. It is only word vomit or nothing at all and I plan to resolutely swallow all of my words that even hint towards making an outline or doing countless revisions and drafts only for them to sit alone and unfinished, never to see the light of day.
> 
> Should this piece find you well and actually go somewhere.
> 
> Additionally, chapter three of sing the body (eclectic) is nearing completion and will be posted as soon as I can have some humility and admit to myself that not everything I create can be absolutely perfect. All that it needs to do in this world is exist.

There came a rapping on his door. 

The man looked up from the papers scattered out before him, which had grasped onto every bit of his attention for the better part of a night. Not one thought of nourishment or yearning for entertainment crossed his mind. There was simply no room for it: Sehun was all but consumed with the content of each document that lay on his desk. He made a point to keep them pristine, sighing under his breath whenever a crease or crinkle marred even one sheet. It was every bit as pristine as he. Even at such a late hour, he was still pieced together as if it were early afternoon, with only his rolled up sleeves and a bit of dark circles under his eyes, washed out from the burning, artificial ember of his desk lamp, to portray the sheer mental exertion he has been putting himself through in the pursuit of besting himself at his own job.

A pursuit halted by one single, tiny being that stood at the doorway to his study.

His eyes adjusted to the light, to looking across the room rather than down at neatly printed words not inches from his face. The figure who had interrupted him from his stupor seemed all but unrecognizable to him, nearly swallowed up by the darkness of the den that lay sprawled out behind their quivering body such like this. The fine outlines of each curve, each strand of hair sticking up from his small head in every direction, was bold and contrasted by the darkness behind him and the soft, amber glow of the light before him. Like a piece of finely crafted writing, the man traced his eyes over every detail of this small intruder and read over that troubled expression, soaking it all in like a beautiful sonnet.

Oh, how lovely it is to have a visitor in the night.

“Little one,” he spoke in a slightly hoarse whisper, clearing his throat before continuing. “You are up at such a late hour. What rouses you?”

The boy's wobbly lower lip juts out that much further, the shivers and shakes racking his body that much more pronounced. From where he sits, Sehun thinks he can even make out the tiny, blonde strands of hair that dot the boy's lithe body like peach fuzz stand on edge, with the ones along his slender neck all but glistening from the moonlight that filters in from a nearby window.

Its curtains billow from a particularly mournful gust of wind and it sends a chill along the man's body. He suddenly remembers when he had opened it this morning to give the birds who nested nearby a stage in which to sing and he the eager audience. Now, with the still rather bare tree branches of early spring scratching along the brick face of his home and the metronome chirp of crickets who scuttled around the tall, damp grass, it was an eerie show to say the least.

He rises from his seat but not for the final curtain call, not to shut out the cold of a dying winter that still pressed on and dug its claws into his goosebumped skin. No, it is to close the distance between his little visitor and he, a sure and steady arm extended to rub a palm from the top of his pretty head, through that luscious hair, and down to that pretty neck, clamping the back as if he were his tiny lion cub and this his pride.

“Did my dear feel too cold in his chambers all alone? Or was it a bad dream that has made those pretty pink lips pout?”

The boy only firms his mouth in response, resolutely silent, though the expression on his face answers in vibrant colors. A deep blush settles on the apples of his cheeks and Sehun decides they look just ripe enough to devour. 

Instead of bearing his teeth and displaying his hunger, he brushes a thumb over those heated cheeks, feeling their warmth radiant over his tired and chilled body. He hasn't noticed just how exhausted this work had made him until his knees start to buckle from this simple touch alone. He crouches down to one knee, his hand still claiming the face of the boy before him, and is now level with those twinkling eyes. It makes Sehun wonder how he could have a hand in making something so ethereal that he sometimes wonders if he were crafted by gods instead.

His intense gaze pins the younger where he stands and Sehun can feel the gasp that is caged inside of his throat before he can hear its great escape from that little, drool slicked mouth of his. He still can't get over how responsive he is, how just a look could make him exalt or wither, how he could utter the same word a million times and yet, with only a slight lilt to his voice, he could evoke a different reaction each and every time. He doted and he disciplined. And he was overjoyed to do so with such a filial pupil as the one who stood before him, under his very thumb in mind and body.

This boy was clay and he the artist who kneads and molds to create the image of a perfect little boy in this too often cruel and unforgiving world. So, by all counts, perhaps he was the very god who created him.

Such a thought made him feel powerful. It was this very power that drove his position as patriarch and his beloved work.

But we all need our distractions from time to time. And one has all but fallen into his very lap.


	2. [luhan] chapter ii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been keeping to the challenge I described in the previous chapter and have written this chapter in a short burst of motivation, while not sparing a moment to mull over tedious revisions that only serve to keep it in a perpetual "in progress" state. As the chapter titles denote, this chapter is from the perspective of Luhan, and the following chapters will also follow this formula to indicate their POV. I have also added more tags and surely will as this story progresses. Enjoy.

A bump in the night is what rouses him.

He is sure that he heard something: a creak of the floorboards, the shuffle of a figure in the night, a whisper or a curse breaking the relative silence of this still and chilly night to wake him from a fitful sleep once more. Small hands bunch up the duvet that is adorned in embroidered flowers. Their soft yet rich colors and hypnotizing designs offer no comfort in the dark of night. It would afford Luhan no solace anyway, not with his eyes searching frantically across his room, darting from one dark corner to the next, searching over the polished varnish of wooden blocks that still lay scattered on the floor and the adoring faces of his stuffed animal friends that sit on his shelves for any sign of a disturbance since he has slumbered.

Luhan is not quite certain how long he has slumbered for, does not know how long he’s let his guard down and made him all but a trap for any ghastly predator that could be lurking these halls. He shudders to think that maybe, just maybe, they are watching him now, biding their time until they can strike, waiting for their prey to go absolutely mad with terror before they pounce on him once and for all. Or, perhaps they are hoping all of these nights that he wakes up to nothing but his own fears and wild imagination, that he’ll someday realize that it is safe, that there are no monsters hidden under his bed or tucked away in his closet with old shoeboxes and a suit only for special occasions. No, they are hoping that he’ll grow up, get a grip, admit to himself that he’s just a child holding onto naïve worries of a big baddie in the night. They want him to fall into this false sense of security just so he can be all the more shocked and horrified to realize, all too late, that all of those ghost stories and urban legends were true and soon the tale of a boy who grew up and didn’t think the boogeyman could get him would be on everyone’s lips and his fate would be sealed.

He couldn’t let that happen. He didn’t care if it made him toss and turn in bed every night and on occasion wet himself from fear. He didn’t care that the other children made him the laughing stock, he who is so quiet and only speaks in horrid tales of what goes bump in the night. He didn’t care, because once the sun came up, he was safe once again and able to be a good and happy little child, a delightful, although meek, boy filled with joy and curiosity about this world. Light was his safety and, after tossing his sheets from his body with a flourish of courage, he resolutely decided he needed to find more of it.

On his small desk, with shelves and drawers littered with scribbled writings and drawings that looked like it would practically burst and expel each sheet of paper, was a small electronic lantern that emitted a soft luminescent glow. It was shaped like an owl, an exact replica of the one he adored from a television show he was all too excited to sit down and watch every weekend, still clad in his pajamas. His father had gotten it for him, along with other cutely shaped nightlights, once his nightmares had become much more prevalent. Luhan would often become far too wrapped up in the day or night at hand, a boy resolutely only seeing one tree and not the whole forest, that he could not quite pinpoint the exact moment when his fearless and childish glee dissipated to make room for his now daunting childish fears.

He knew his home well. He knew all the best hiding spots and exactly which floorboards would squeak when he used to run to the kitchen for snacks right before dinnertime. He didn’t have to search for exactly which walls he had scribbled or carved his name into, nor ponder where his father kept his most precious keys and invaluable documents. This was his home and, to young, little Luhan, it felt every bit of an extension of his own being. This is why, he thinks, as he carefully tiptoes his way through the loft and gingerly places his foot down each step to reach the first landing, his mouth firmed into a grimace, that he feels all too vulnerable and all the more defensive at whatever it is that is invading or plans to invade his home.

Like a moth to flame, he spots the amber light that pours from his father’s study like an overdrawn well, his eyes alight with salvation from the warm glow that fills the adjoining den. His mouth, once clamped tight to eliminate any noise his shortened breaths could emit from it, falls open just a bit, just enough for him to suck in a cool breath and feel how it sends a shiver down his spine. He jumps at it, his mind supplying him with chilling thoughts of a haggard, boney finger running along his back, from shoulder to tailbone. He jumps forward, his jackrabbit heart nearly bursting from his chest from the sudden movement, his pulse pounding in his ears louder than the creak he emits from the floorboards underfoot.

All reason and poise immediately catapult from his pretty little head and so he bolts, closing the distance between he and the doorway to his father’s study, its solid oak door completely open to reveal his father working inside, his ever-present pensive look now on display to his rather adorable spitting image. Luhan likens it to the stain glass windows of the church he is brought to every Sunday by the man who sits before him and that man’s mother, Luhan’s paternal grandmother. Like a light switch, the little boy’s mind flickers to memories of such Sundays and how in awe he is of those stain glass windows, how absolutely ethereal it looks at high noon and the powerful sun casts its light down upon it, painting the inside of the church with brilliant shades of green and blue and red. 

He decides right then that his favorite color is no longer purple, but orange. And he has decided a long time ago that his father is his salvation.


End file.
